


Do you do this every night with someone else

by Venivincere



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2013 Camelot Remix, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is worse than memory: it's falling blind into the unknown, and Arthur thinks that having excuses to grab onto is making it worse. Trust shouldn't be so much easier with something, some<i>one</i> to look at.  But it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you do this every night with someone else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_eyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_eyed/gifts).
  * Inspired by [and I am almost afraid to believe it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/453842) by [blue_eyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_eyed/pseuds/blue_eyed). 



> This story is a remix of [blue_eyed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_eyed/pseuds/blue_eyed)'s story, "[and I am almost afraid to believe it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/453842)". Like the original work, the title comes from Emilie Autumn's poem, "Ghost". I wanted to explore the author's original story in the context of Arthur married.

On the first anniversary of Merlin's death, Arthur drinks until he vomits. He drinks until confusion writes itself large on the faces of his men, until Arthur can no longer see joviality there, merely pity. He drinks until his wife disallows him in their bed, until she sits him in a chair and calls a servant to make up a pallet on the floor and leave an empty basin. In the cool of a morning that promises to turn sweltering in short order, Arthur dreams, the pain in his body colluding with the pain in his heart, until that beloved, familiar voice knifes through him: a punishment. _Poor Arthur_ , it says, and a cool caress, like a breeze, brushes his cheek.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the second anniversary of Merlin's death, Arthur takes dinner with Guinevere, takes his wine as well-watered as she, and afterward, takes himself up to the top of the highest tower of the castle and gazes into the gloaming. He's been here before, but not since Merlin; they came here often in times of war and in times of peace, in times of dearth and in those of plenty, in spring and fall, summer and winter. There is a man of habit somewhere inside Arthur, something Merlin used to bring out of him, in all the right measure, and the tower's for talking, it's always been. "I miss you, you know," says Arthur, and it's the first time he's allowed himself to say it.

 _I know_ sighs in on the evening breeze, and Arthur's too far gone in memory to recognise anything wrong with that.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the morning of the third anniversary of Merlin's death, Arthur is on fire. The flames leap high around him as he folds his arms around Merlin's chest, pressing close into his back to protect him as much as he can from the flames, for as long as he can. Merlin's hands are tied behind him around the stake, and Arthur hardly cares that they cup his cock, he hardly cares as the flames lick his arse, as they singe his hair, as they roast him inside his armour. He hardly cares until the fire turns liquid, turns to ice-cold rain as it is wont to do in his dreams, when the power of his emotions can move heaven and earth like magic. But still, he burns. 

_I'm safe,_ says Merlin, but Arthur can't -- won't hear it. He holds Merlin to him and arches his back, and presses against those hands.

"Mine," he growls, and squeezes until the memories of Merlin's gasps echo around him. He arches and presses and presses until the heat explodes out of him, leaves him shaking, leaves his sleeping trousers damp and his arms clutched hard around his pillow, roused and awakened, _Yours_ echoing in his ears. He wakes fully to find he is alone in his marriage bed, his wife long chased away by his flailing limbs, by the nightmares of his failures, and this time he hears quite clearly as the voice sounds again: _Yours_.

It's Merlin; he thinks it is, he _wants_ it to be, though the voice is half night breeze and missing an essential insouciance. "What are you?" he asks, and he wants reassurance, because every ghost he's encountered in his life has meant to hurt him in some way, and he can't bear to think that Merlin would be a ghost now, too. But what else could he be? He desires and dreads the answer in equal measure.

 _Merlin_ , the voice answers, and that doesn't answer the spoken question, but it answers the essential question. Arthur tilts his head back and laughs, and something in him lightens. The answer is true, because Merlin always was good at the essential things. 

Guinevere comes in from her dressing room and smiles at him. "It's good to see you happy, Arthur," she says, and she's smiling. "Who were you talking to?"

"No one," he answers, eventually. "Just talking to myself."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He's lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling after a trying day of judgement and diplomacy, restless in his bones and unable to sleep. He slips out of bed and draws on his boots as quietly as possible, but Guinevere asks, "Again, Arthur?" when he gets to the door. "Do you want me to come with you?" she asks, she always asks, but he can hear the reluctance that's sinking ever so slowly into bitterness.

"I -- no. Stay in bed. No need for you to suffer when I can't sleep," he says, and slips out. He goes up the tower and talks about his day until Merlin answers, until the warmth blooming at his side becomes a body in the dark, until Merlin is real and alive and wholly his, here at the top of the world. This is the best it will ever again get, and it is worse than memory: it's falling blind into the unknown with the dead at his side, and Arthur thinks that having an excuse he can nudge in the ribs makes it worse. Trust shouldn't be so much easier with something, some _one_ to look at. But it is, so he slowly slides away, to a place only Merlin can reach, without a word.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She sleeps separate from him now, on the daybed in her dressing chamber. When he tells Merlin, Merlin comes to him in his sleep and wakes him with his mouth around Arthur's cock. He pushes into Arthur, takes him rough and hard, and when he comes, he growls, "Mine!" in Arthur's ear.

 _Yours_ , says Arthur, or he thinks he says it, drifting in a haze of pleasure and forgetfulness, verging on sleep. _Yours_.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There is a battle, and Arthur maybe thinks, as he lies in his blood, that it is his last battle. He falls asleep, shivering and alone on the hill, but still he calls for Merlin. "Just hold me," he asks, "please, just hold me," and when the warmth surrounds him, he sleeps. 

Arthur dreams, as he's always done, the pain in his body colluding with the pain in his heart, until that beloved, familiar voice knifes through him: a reminder of punishment, and now, at the end of all things, an offer of absolution. _Poor Arthur_ , it says, and a cool caress, like a breeze, brushes his cheek. _It's time to come home._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic]Do You Do This Every Night With Someone Else?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791388) by [readbyjela (jelazakazone)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/readbyjela)




End file.
